


The Streets of Manhattan

by Lost_And_Longing



Category: Hamilton - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Attempted Assault, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/M, bit of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lost_And_Longing/pseuds/Lost_And_Longing
Summary: She’d always known it wasn’t safe to be alone. Not in the dark, not in the streets. She’d never expected to be shown just how right she was, though.





	1. Chapter 1

It all happens so fast. 

It's dark, late at night, far past the respectable time to be out- especially for a woman. You know it's both inappropriate and dangerous for you to be out, but, well, as a prostitute, you don't have a choice. You have to get back home somehow, home to the rickety old house you live in situated in the least reputable part of the city. You're walking to that place right now, at 11:00 at night, alone. Not to mention, still dressed as a prostitute. What could possibly go wrong?  

In all honesty, you're terrified. A woman, alone at night, wearing clothes that clearly mark her as a prostitute or bar-whore, walking about the streets of Manhattan, New York, defenseless, still several blocks away from home. Any man that might happen to come across you...any man that didn't want to pay your price earlier could get what he wants from you now, for free, and there's no one around to stop him. 

You glance around the barely-lit streets, shivering both at the cold and at the thought that even the dim street-lights won't be enough to stop what's coming for you if you don't get inside, quickly. There's a distant warning bell in your head screaming  _run! Find a weapon! Call a friend, family member, get inside!_

Except you can't run, because that will attract attention, and there is no weapon on this deserted street in Manhattan that could stop a man once he's set his eyes on you. As for friends, family members, relatives- your family is all either dead or living elsewhere. You have friends, yes, but none that live anywhere close to here and none that would fare any better against a man in the dark of night. 

Right on cue, footsteps sound behind you. Fear surges. You endeavor to keep calm, but fail. You panic, eyes frantically flitting around for anyone else, anything else- an open store, a light on in a house, anything. The only lights you see are dim and the stores all closed.

The footsteps come closer, closer, closer. Your senses increase, heightening until the distinct, acrid scent of unwashed male washes over you, strongly enough you have to force yourself not to gag. Blind, overwhelming panic begins to take over.

The man comes closer still, close enough you can hear his breathing, and you finally lose it. You grab your skirts and sprint, cursing your burdensome dress for slowing you down. The man follows in pursuit, closer and closer and somewhere deep inside your bones you already know there's no escaping. Women don't exactly go on daily runs or condition themselves for any kind of physical effort. Men, on the other hand...

A cold, clammy hand closes around your arm and jerks you to a stop. You turn to face him. In the dim light of the streets, he looks ghostly and unreal, an ugly creature of exaggerated highlights and shadows. 

"Hello, sweetheart," he sneers. "Fancy helping me out with a...problem of mine?" 

You know exactly what he means. Your hand itches to slap him, but you're used to men's disgusting behavior- and besides, angering this man now will only make it worse for you in the long run. 

"No, not really, sir," you say instead.  _Be quiet. Smile, look pretty. Maybe he'll let you go if you can make him pity you- maybe he'll be gentler. Curb your terror. If you give rein to it, it's only gonna hurt more._

His hand is still around your forearm, gripping tightly enough you know it'll leave bruises. He grins, showing rotting, yellowed teeth. Although the sight isn't exactly uncommon, especially given your work, it still gives your stomach an unpleasant turn when you smell his breath: rotting meat and onions, or something just as bad. 

"Well, I have to insist, actually. I think you're  _exactly-"_ he shoves you against a wall, "what I need." 

Your breathing speeds up as you frantically calculate what to do. You have some self-defense training, thanks to your manager, but not enough to make the possibility of success anything more than slight; besides, if you fail, that'll just make him angry, making whatever he intends to do to you worse. He could even end up killing you if you're not careful. You know men like this one- they're uncivilized, brutal, and savage. If they don't get their way, then...

To make matters worse, there's the tiny, insignificant problem of your still intact virginity- after all, there's more than one way to please a man. You've been groped, you've been manhandled and kissed and ground on, but never have you given your body to a man. In all honesty, your experiences with men have been awful enough that you doubt you'll ever want to. 

Of course, your consent doesn't exactly matter to this guy. 

He pins you to the wall, nuzzling into your neck. It's absolutely disgusting. You want to vomit but force yourself to make some sort of sound so you sound like you're enjoying it. It comes out shrill, high-pitched, and unhappy, but he chuckles and murmurs something about whores and how good this must make you feel. 

One hand reaches down, lifting your skirts, as the other unbuckles his pants. Tears prick the back of your eyes and you stiffen, but he doesn't stop. You keep your mouth shut, already knowing it'll be useless to protest, yet you still silently plead in your mind  _please, please, please no._ You pray to God, begging him and his son and his spirit please, please, _please..._  

He's talking again, something about whores and how women are only good for one thing. You do your best to block him out as he hikes up your skirts, pushing down your undergarments. Then a rough hand is- is  _touching_ you and he shifts and then it's not his hand, it's-

You don't care about percentages anymore. You don't care about the infinitesimal chance you have of getting away from here safely. All you know is  _this. Needs. To. Stop._

You scream. "Fire!" Fire because it's a direct danger to everyone who hears it; fire because it will bring whoever might be nearby. If there is anyone.

"You little  _bi-"_ you elbow him. Hard. Follow it up with a headbutt for good measure. He staggers backwards, and that's when you run. 

You don't make it far; he grabs you again before you make so much as twenty steps. You turn on him, kicking and flailing, not even knowing what you're doing, just knowing that  _he is not going to touch you ever again._ But he overpowers you in seconds, pinning you down against the ground, a malicious leer on his face. All you can think is how much worse it's going to be now, now that you've tried to escape. 

You close your eyes, finally giving up. You stifle a sob, aware tears are streaking down your face even as you wait for his next move- to hike your skirts up, undoubtedly. 

His hands move to your skirt, exposing your legs to the cold. You thrash violently, sobs springing unbidden from your throat, but he pins you down, forcing you to stay still. Somewhere outside the fortress of your mind you retreated into, you hear him say something, you feel his hands push against your legs and-

And then there's deafening silence, or maybe that's just the ringing in your ears. Nothing happens for so long you finally open your eyes, only to stare uncomprehendingly. It takes you thirty seconds to realize there's another man- five more to realize they're fighting. You stare as your attacker is beaten and kicked and pummeled. You stare as he runs away, a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. You stare as the other man, face shrouded in ghostly shadows from the streetlights, approaches you. 

Only one thought goes through your head.  _I'm only trading one evil for another._

For what man out late at night, exhausted and not in his right mind, could resist the temptation you're offering him now? A helpless, defenseless and attractive woman, lying on the ground, free for the taking. You know there's no chance this man could possibly be any different than the one who attacked you before- after all, he fought of your attacker, right? What motive could he possibly have to defend you, a poor, good-for-nothing woman, other than the fact he wants you?

In your experience, men always want something from you. You get that maybe somewhere out there, there are men that aren't like that. You do get that it's  _not all men_ who are perverted, violent and lust-filled. But the only men who'd be out at midnight roaming the streets- well, you're ready to make a bet that the stats aren't so kind on that. 

In your terror, you're completely still and silent, staring up at him in fear. He crouches beside you and you flinch, pulling your legs together and crossing them for good measure. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he says gently. His new position happened to put him in direct path of a streetlight; you see now that he's young, definitely younger than your attacker. He has brown hair and dark eyes and a slender physique; almost as far away from  _him_ as it gets. 

But still, you won't give up your fear. You can't get over the fact that there's no reason for him to have saved you,  _no reason,_ unless he wants to use you in the very same way  _he_ did. You squirm away from him, relieved when he doesn't follow. The extra inch or so you get from that isn't much, but somehow still serves to make you feel better. 

"Are you alright, miss?" 

You almost burst out laughing, but keep it in. Shouldn't it be obvious you're not? You were attacked-  _assaulted-_ and now you're lying on the ground, cheeks tear-stained and skirts ripped, and he wants to ask if you're  _alright?_

You sit up, smoothing down your skirts as best you can. You wrap your arms around yourself and attempt a smile (it comes out a grimace). You tell him, "Yes, sir, I'm fine." And you make sure to avoid his eyes at all cost. 

The man scoffs. "Pardon me, miss, but I find it very hard to believe your words. I heard your scream earlier and went to investigate; when I found you, you we-"

"I'm well aware," you snap, "it happened  _to me,_ after all." You regret your tone the instant you speak, cowering away from him.  _No no no no what have you done what have you-_

"Shh, it's okay," he says quickly, automatically scooting towards you. He lets out a sigh when you once again shift away, but doesn't attempt to follow you. "Look, I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? I don't know what you're thinking right now, but I'm not- I'm not that kinda guy." He gives you a smirk and says, "I only take willing ladies to bed with me, after all." 

After everything you've been through, that should've been the nail in the coffin of both your sanity and your presence in that street, but strangely, somehow, his comment only serves to make you laugh. "Wow, egotistical much, huh?" 

"Hey, I'm not gonna lie to you," he grins, winking, "I'm  _very_ popular with the ladies." 

You scoff, unable to keep a smile off your face for long. "I can't believe you're  _flirting_ with me after-" 

He looks at you, eyes wide in sudden realization, and winces. "My sincerest apologies, my lady," he says quickly. "I realize that that was not very tactful on my part and bordered on distasteful, especially given our current situation. Will you please do me the honor of allowing me to atone for my _grande faux pas?"_  

You gape at him, eyes just as wide as his. You've never-  _never-_ been spoken to like that before. "I'm- I'm sorry?" 

He stands, offering his hand to help you up as well. Once you do so (you ignore his hand and also the way his face falls when you stand without his aid), he bows. When he straightens, he looks you directly in the eye and says, "I wish to apologize for my awful blunder, miss...?" 

"Oh, um," you try to collect your wits, "it's y/n. And no, please don't trouble yourself, I didn't even mind that much. It was, um, a nice distraction." You mentally kick yourself.  _He's as eloquent as freaking Shakespeare, and you're just one gigantic mess. Nice going._

"Y/n, I must insist," he replies, eyes still locked with yours. It's unnerving, but you don't look away; you've learned not to show weakness and that's one of the easiest ways to show it. "I've put you through more pain, and that is simply intolerable. Will you do me the honor of allowing me to write to you?" 

You giggle a little, feeling a little bad when his face falls at your seeming rejection. As if. "Firstly, I do not even know your name. Secondly,  _that_ is how you plan on making it up to me? By...writing a  _letter?"_

He huffs, looking a little miffed. "I assure you, my letters are much more than ordinary letters. And, for your information, I have something  _much_ grander planned than just a  _letter,_ as you so eloquently put it. But first, I think it prudent to establish a way of communication, no?"

You raise an eyebrow. He winces. "Oh, yes. And my name is Alexander Hamilton." When you don't respond, he presses, "So...?" 

"So?" you echo.

"So," he says impatiently, "may I write to you, Miss Y/N?" 

You grin, pretending to consider it. "Perhaps." 

He groans, instinctively stepping closer to you. "Aww, come on!" 

Your eyes widen ever so slightly as his closeness. Fear seeps in again and you take a step back, arms tightening around your midsection. "I- I-" you stammer out, eyeing him with trepidation. He steps back instantly, horror and pain warring. 

"I am so, so sorry," he says quickly. "I have hurt you again, all within the span of but a few minutes- please, allow me another chance. I will make it up to you if you but allow me the opportunity, miss." 

You look into his intense, somehow hopeful eyes and feel yourself wavering. Despite how he seems impulsive and brash, he doesn't have the same eerie vibe the other man was giving off. Of course, as intelligent as Mr. Hamilton seems to be, you have no doubts he could easily be fooling you. Not that you're not smart, but you've never been educated- your world is not kind in granting women schooling. Any bits of literacy you've picked up have been few and far between, so you know you are very much out-matched in this. 

However...you don't know if you really have a choice. Your attacker is still out there, maybe watching you even now; if you refuse Mr. Hamilton, your attacker could easily follow you until you're alone again and strike. Not to mention how badly Mr. Hamilton might take your rejection. 

So you force a smile, relieved when this one, at least, comes out fairly non-forced, and nod. "I couldn't possibly refuse such a kind offer, Mr. Hamilton," you say politely, smoothing out your skirt. 

A minute frown crosses his face for a moment. You worry if maybe he saw through your facade, but he smiles back and says, "Delightful. Would you allow me to accompany you to your home?" 

You both know that it is not just out of politeness that he asks. You both know he says this only to keep the other man at bay. 

Part of you wonders,  _but for how long?_

You force your smile wider, arm automatically bending in order for him to link his own through it, before you stop. There's no way you can take close contact with a man now- there might be no way you'll ever be able to do it again without retching. Past bad experiences mingle with this one and you're sick of ill-bred, violent, ungodly men. Mr. Hamilton, of course, catches your aborted movements but says nothing, merely waits for you to begin to move in the direction of your house. 

The first few minutes of your walk are silent and awkward. Neither of you seem to be able to think of anything- any possible conversation topics are rather out of the question, seeing as the weather (it's pitch black and cold as ice), your health (pretty obvious since he saw you almost getting raped), and your employment (also fairly obvious from your clothing) are all pretty much out of the question. Finally, however, Mr. Hamilton seems to come up with something, for he turns to you. 

"Did he hurt you?" 

Not exactly the best conversation starter, but you suppose it needed to be asked. You shake your head. "Other than a few bruises, I'm fine." You resist the urge to add  _physically, at least._

He nods. There's some more silence. Then you ask, "Why were you even out here this late at night? It's far past the respectable hour to be out." 

Mr. Hamilton looks down. In the dim lighting, it almost looks like he blushes. "I...may have agreed to do a specific job for my employer and then completely forgotten I had to do it until the tenth hour of the night." 

You laugh a little bit. "How do you forget to do a task set to you by your own employer? That does not seem readily doable."

He shrugs, looking embarrassed. "I was holed up in my room, writing. I tend to forget all semblance of time when I do so, and I had no one at my apartment to remind me to stop." 

"Writing?" you ask, even though you're not really all that interested, knowing you're not too far from your house now so you can just escape if he bores you too much. "What do you write about?" 

He lights up. "All sorts of things. His Honor- George Washington, my employer- gives me documents and treatises and such to draft, but I also write all sorts of legal court cases. In my spare time, if I have any, I also enjoy poetry."

You raise an eyebrow. "You write poetry?" 

"Like I said, during my free time, so not all that often. His Excellency keeps me fairly busy, as does-" he makes a face- "Thomas Jefferson."

"Wait, hang on," you start excitedly, "You mean to tell me you're employed by  _President George Washington?_ And not only that, you work with Thomas Jefferson?" 

Mr. Hamilton's questioning look turns into annoyance. "You're telling me you've heard of  _Jefferson_ but you haven't heard about me?" 

"I'm not exactly into politics," you shrug, stopping in front of your door. "Here's my house."

"This is where you live?"

"...Don't act so disgusted," you mumble, knowing it's perhaps a rude thing to say to someone you just met but unable to stop yourself. Thankfully, Mr. Hamilton laughs. 

"Not disgusted, miss, just thinking a lady like you deserves an abode much grander than that which has been granted to you currently." You roll your eyes, unable to keep a blush down. You've never been flirted with like this before- it's always been the same old, same old  _nice tits_ or vulgar comments about what your hands or lips might be useful for. You've never been complimented for your beauty, just harassed- there is a  _huge_ difference between being told your breasts are a 'good' size and actually being complimented for your appearance. 

"You certainly know how to compliment a lady, don't you?" You ask, carefully keeping your tone even. 

"It's my specialty," he winks. The gesture makes you vaguely uncomfortable but you ignore the feeling. Mr. Hamilton has not yet shown you any reasons to be wary of his intentions towards you, and although he is extremely flirtatious, you don't think it has any real meaning behind it. 

 _Just because every other man you've known has screwed you over doesn't mean this one will,_ you tell yourself, even though at the same time you acknowledge it's a fool's hope. Yes, not all men are alike, but under which category does Mr. Hamilton fall? 

"Now that I know your address," Mr. Hamilton is saying, startling you out of your thoughts, "May I presume to write to you? Nothing inappropriate, of course; I wish only to talk to you, nothing more." 

You hesitate. "Yes, you may." 

Mr. Hamilton seems to frown at that, but like before, it's gone within a second, leaving you to wonder if he really did frown or if it was simply a trick of the light. He smiles and bows, one hand reaching out for your hand before aborting (much to your gratitude) and tucking behind his back. "Until we meet again, Miss Y/N." 

You enter your house, lighting a lamp sitting nearby as soon as you can. Now that you're alone, every sound, known or not, only ramps your terror up- what if the other man followed you home? You left your door unlocked (for no one usually locks their doors anyways); he could've gotten in- could be waiting for you right now! You long to turn around and run back to Mr. Hamilton and-

And what? What could you even do? Ask a complete stranger to spend the night with you to protect you? Ask a  _man_ to sleep in the very same house as you and trust he won't try to do the same thing he's supposed to be preventing from happening to you via someone else? You have no other friends you can get to at this time of night, and the mere thought that a stranger would even accept your request- regardless of any danger he might pose to you of himself- is idiocy. 

So instead you take a deep breath, turn around and lock the door. Then you deadbolt it. You carefully examine very inch of your house for any signs of a possible intruder (it's small, so that isn't hard). You lock and deadbolt your back door, move over to your windows and do the same with them. Then, when you're finally satisfied enough's enough, you light every lamp you own and take them all to your bedroom. 

The next morning, you'll blame the intense glow of the lamps for your lack of sleep. 

The next morning, you'll know that it wasn't the lamps that was the problem. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, you're terrified. 

All the lamps ran dry during the night, so when you wake up, you're surrounded by a half-dozen glorified candlesticks partially covered in wax. It's not a good start to your day, and it doesn't improve from there. You pick yourself up out of bed, tears pricking your eyes as sore muscles and bruises make themselves known all over your body. You already want to cry and it's not even seven in the morning. 

Shakily, you take off last night's clothes behind a deadlocked bedroom door with a chair shoved in front (it never hurts to be cautious, right?). One look at the bruised, lacerated flesh of your thighs, and you're somewhere between nausea and total breakdown. You shove both down and bravely soldier on, changing undergarments, petticoats, corset, everything. What's left of last night's clothes you throw into a heap in the corner of your room, wishing you could burn them, but you need to salvage whatever you can from them- clothing isn't cheap, especially with your salary. 

Once that's done, you stare with trepidation at your still closed and locked bedroom door. Even though you know, as little as you slept last night, there's no way anyone could've gotten in (not to mention the bolted doors and windows), you're still scared. What if you missed a window? What if your attacker's an expert lock-picker? But finally, you decide you have to go out. You have no food in here, after all; if you don't, you'll starve to death. 

Even so, you grab a particularly heavy lamp before you open the door. 

The shutters you pulled over the windows means only sparse light flickers through, so the room is dark and shadowy. You swallow your fear and timidly creep forward, cautiously throwing a shutter back. Blinding light pours in the room, and you catch your breath-

Only to realize there's no one there. You're alone. You're safe. 

 _You're safe,_ you repeat to yourself for good measure,  _you're safe you're safe you'resafeyou'resafeyou're-_

You take a deep breath and set the lamp down. Okay, so thus far, you've managed to get yourself out of bed, dress yourself, and step out of your room. That's progress. Now, however, comes the much more difficult task.

Going outside. 

 

* * *

 

You'll never know how, but you somehow managed the strength to get to work. You'll never know how, but you somehow managed the strength to get  _through_ work (the disgusting hands and leers and words of the men there made you throw up, quietly, in between every single one of them, but you still got through it). 

But you definitely don't know how you're going to get home tonight. 

Finally, as the sky begins to darken and your terror increases, you manage to humble yourself enough to ask your manager to walk you home. You refrain from mentioning what happened last night, and you know he won't ask. To him, you're just another one of his workers, which is good because it means he won't take advantage of you. After all, he's the one that made the rules- no customer is allowed to pleasure the lady in any way, which, fortunately, includes intercourse (your manager's rather cunning way of preventing rape among his employees). Why would he break his own rules? 

So you walk home together in semi-awkward silence occasionally punctuated by workplace gossip and idle comments about family and weather and pretend you don't breathe a sigh of relief once you're home, safe, and you've bidden your manager farewell.

It's only as you're walking in that you notice the letter. It's addressed to you, written in hurried but somehow beautiful script and from a Mr. Alexander Hamilton.

You pick it up and scramble inside the house, every nerve on edge at being outside your home longer than absolutely necessary. You lock and bolt the door behind you, perform a quick check to make sure no one got inside your house while you were away, and scramble into your bedroom. It's only after that door is locked with a chair propped against it that you at last allow yourself to examine Mr. Hamilton's letter once more. 

You tear it open, making a mental note to perhaps think of investing in a letter-opener if Mr. Hamilton decides to send any more letters to you, unfold it, and, after seeing the first few lines, promptly burst into tears. 

It reads,

_My Dear Y/N,_

_I offer, once again, my sincerest and most contrite apologies, but this time, for the delay in this promised favor of which I owe you. I was constrained by work, the limitations of my desk, and the disapproving eyes of His Excellency, President George Washington, as well as the phaeton in which we traveled this afternoon; they have afforded me few opportunities in which I could ascertain the necessary time needed to write to you-_

You blink back tears. What in the hell had you just read? 

Given your background and the way in which you'd grown up, you're honestly proud to even be able to read the most basic of literature. The world is not kind to women in the form of education; when said woman is a girl growing up in the streets, trying to provide for her family any way she knew how, the world is even less so. You know how to read enough to get by- barely- but Mr. Hamilton's vocabulary is far beyond yours. What even is 's-i-n-c-e-r-e-s-t'? How is it pronounced? How about 'constrained'? What's that? How can one's eyes be 'disapproving'? What the hell is a- a...ph...phaeton? 

You force yourself to breathe. To calm down. You begin again where you left off, trying your best to make sense of Mr. Hamilton's elegant script and entirely too intellectual paragraphs. By the end of it, you're just as lost before you began- even more so, to be entirely honest. Wiping a stray tear off your cheek, you fold the letter back up, light your lamps, and throw yourself into bed. 

You have a friend to visit. 

 

* * *

 

Although you didn't have the next day off work, you manage to get away during the day (you almost never got customers during daylight anyways; mostly you were just there to clean up after the night before) using the excuse of an urgent errand needing to be run. You usually never take off work, even for holidays, so your manager was fine with you taking a half-day. 

Grasping the letter tightly in one hand, you scurry along the busy street, trying to keep yourself from flinching every time you feel or see a man's eyes on you. Every stray touch, every accidental brush or bump makes a cold sweat break out, something that's not helped by the general chill of the fast-approaching winter. Your heart jumps into your throat every time anyone, woman or man, offers a polite greeting, and by the time you've finally reached your friend's house, you're on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

"Good afternoon, Y/N!" 

"Good afternoon, Adrianna," you respond, smiling at your friend. "How do you do?" 

"Well, and yourself?" 

"As well as can be expected. I..." you hesitate, suddenly feeling foolish and inadequate. "I have told you before about my rather limited education as a child, have I not?"

"Yes, what of it?" 

Here's where it gets awkward. You slowly pull the letter out of your coat where you'd buried it. "I met a young gentleman hardly two days ago. He walked me home and offered to write to me; I accepted. The problem is...um..." you look at her entreatingly, hoping she'll be able to divine your issue without you having to actually state it out loud. This is embarrassing enough without having to spell it out, after all. 

"You can't understand his letter?" Adrianna's expression is impassive, thank goodness. 

You shake your head no and hand her the letter. Her eyes grow wide the moment she sees the name written on the outside and she turns to you, something somewhere between excitement and horror on her face. "You met  _Mr. Alexander Hamilton?"_

You nod slowly, confused. "Yes...what of it?" 

"Y/N, you don't know? Mr. Hamilton was President Washington's right hand man during the war; he's now taken office as the first secretary of the treasury!"

"Mr. Hamilton is...the head of the treasury?" You ask softly, shocked. "But he looks so young!" 

Adrianna purses her lips, taking the letter from you. "I've no idea his exact age; according to gossip, he never talks of anything further back in his past than joining the army. His teen years are completely unknown; however, if I were to take a guess, I'd say he's in his early thirties." 

You nod slowly. You're in your late twenties; that's not too bad an age gap after all. Not, of course, that you're ever intending on becoming anything to Mr. Hamilton that might make the topic of an age disparity a necessary one. "But what about the actual letter?" you ask after a moment. "We may discuss Mr. Hamilton's private affairs later."

Adrianna looks up from the letter, smirking. "I believe they are one and the same, Y/N," she declares, holding the offending material out.

"You do remember I gave this to you for the express purpose of not being able to understand it, correct?" you ask, stifling a laugh. Adrianna huffs. 

"Fine, then. I'll read it to you." She clears her throat. _"'My dear Y/N, I offer, once again, my sincerest and most contrite apologies, but this time, for the delay in this promised favor of which I owe you. I was constrained by work, the limitations of my desk, and the disapproving eyes of His Excellency, President George Washington, as well as the phaeton in which we traveled this afternoon; they have afforded me few opportunities in which I could ascertain the necessary time needed to write to you, mine acquaintance. Ever since the eve of our fated meeting, my dear, I have oft pondered the way in which I could atone for the sins and mistakes I have rendered unto you; it has, indeed, I confess, consumed many of my waking hours since our last meeting and quite thusly made my work ethic quite abominable.'"_

She pauses for breath. "Goodness, he is quite the wordy one, isn't he?" You nod, but Adrianna's already started back up again. _"'However, now at last I am able to put ink to parchment and pen this missive to you, acquaintance of mine. My soul wishes only two things from you; one, that you will respond to me in as much haste as proper. Two, that you are able to come to a party- really, more a gathering of peoples- that is being held at Senator Philip Schuyler's home this Friday's eve. If you prove able to do so, you will have succeeded in making this young fool's heart exceedingly glad.'"_ She wiggles her eyebrows at you; you roll your eyes.  _"'I eagerly await your response. Faithfully yours, Alexander Hamilton.'"_

You have to sit there for a long moment, trying to put together everything that was just said. "Did you understand any of that?" Adrianna asks, curious, not spiteful. You nod. 

"Yes. I understand much better when people speak the words to me; seeing them writ on paper makes it much harder. However, the worst has not yet come. Mr. Hamilton has asked a speedy reply for his letter, and I have already waited a half-day; worse, I..." you look down, not wanting to have to say it. 

"Can you write?" your friend asks. Biting backs tears, you shake your head. There's silence before Adrianna speaks again, and when she does, it is, thank God, brisk and to the point. "Alright, 'twill be I who writes this letter while you dictate. In the meanwhile, however, I will teach you your letters, that you may be able to write back to your dear Mr. Hamilton yourself before long." 

You give her a look. "He's hardly  _my_ Mr. Hamilton, Adrianna. You and I both know those endearments were for politeness only. Really, if he hadn't used them, he might almost be deemed rude." 

Adrianna shrugs, smirking a little. "I don't know, Y/N, most young men are not so forward as to invite a young lady to a party, alone, don't you agree?" 

Well. She had you there. 

"He...might have offended me at our first meeting," you mumble, unwilling to admit you've lost the fight. "He said he'd endeavor to make it up to me, and this must be his way." 

"Still..." She hands you back the letter, taking your other hand and pulling you towards her writing desk. "I must say, I'm quite proud that my best friend's managed to catch the eye of the secretary of treasury!" 

You turn red, torn between telling her the truth of your first meeting (or maybe that tiny little fact that even thinking about a man touching you makes you nauseous) and continuing to deny Mr. Hamilton's interest in you. 

Because he can't be interested, right? You're nothing- a street girl; worse, a prostitute. A young man like him, as ambitious as he is, would want to marry someone much higher than he in social status, or at least his equal- perhaps one of the Schuyler daughters. After all, he'll have the perfect opportunity to meet them at this party of his this Friday. 

And even if he  _is_ interested in you, which is extremely unlikely- would you even want it? You've spent your life dealing with unwelcome advances, unwelcome attention from men. Is Mr. Hamilton destined to be another one, another discomfort given to you when you're already hurt and bleeding from attempting to cope with the last unwelcome advance made to you? 

Adrianna sits you down, writes something on a piece of parchment. She writes more, and eventually you recognize them as somehow familiar. "These are letters," she tells you, writing another one down. "There are 26 altogether, but each has a lowercase and uppercase, so there are actually more like 52. We'll just go over the first five or so today, though, how's that?" 

You nod. 

"This one's called A..." 


	3. Chapter 3

Dictating your letter to Adrianna is easily one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. You're a very private person by nature, and dictating what you intend for another's ears only makes you feel unclothed, revealed in the worst way. Never mind that it's not in the least personal or risque; it still feels far too intimate for Adrianna to be listening. 

"'I hope to see you this Friday,'" Adrianna says, looking up from the paper, "What's next?" 

You consider. How to close? Should you use respectfully or faithfully? What about sincerely? You don't want to give Mr. Hamilton any false ideas, but you also don't want to be rude. You're many things, but you've always endeavored not to have rude as one of them. "'Respectfully', um...just put my name after that, I guess." 

Adrianna grins. "You guess?" 

You refuse to blush. "Shut up." 

"Alright, alright, shutting up." She looks back down at the paper and signs it, adding a flourish. "The first thing you need to learn, my dear friend, is your signature. At least you can sign your letters to Mr. Hamilton."

"You say that like these letters will be a recurring thing," you mumble, looking over the letter. You recognize a few words here and there, but not many. You really hope Adrianna wrote down what you dictated and not something else entirely- you have a bad feeling she wrote something extremely forward and flirtatious, but don't have the literacy needed to check. You'll just have to take her word for it. 

The sheer lack of control you have over your life- even over something as stupid as writing a freaking  _letter-_ makes you want to cry. 

"Just what did you put in that letter?" 

"What you told me." But that look is far too innocent for your tastes. 

"I swear to God if you don't tell me exactly what you put in that letter, I'm tearing it into pieces." You know you're being too harsh. You know. But you  _need_ some kind of control over your life, at least somewhere. 

It's kind of pathetic how the only modicum of control you have over your life is about a freaking letter.

Adrianna sighs and picks the letter up, showing it to you. "Look. 'Honored Sir, I apologize for the lateness of this missive; circumstances prevented me from writing to you sooner. I thank you for your kind offer and will indeed try my utmost to come. I hope to see you this Friday.' I've written it down exactly how you told me. I wouldn't go against you so far as to write something completely opposite of what you said, sweetie. You can trust me." 

You turn away, hating yourself for hurting your friend. "I'm sorry, Adrianna. I know you're trustworthy, it's just..." 

"Don't worry. I understand." Adrianna gives you a small smile and turning back to her desk before stopping. "Wait...hang on, did Mr. Hamilton happen to give you his address?" 

You freeze. "Oh, crap." 

 

* * *

 

You hadn't realized what a bad idea this was until today. 

You were almost raped. You're a sex-worker. 

You're going to a party with a bunch of high-status, highly intelligent and refined individuals, and you don't even know if you're able to stomach a man kissing your hand. Let alone be able to stomach feeling men's hungry gazes on you the majority of the night. 

Here's the problem: you don't have a single dress that isn't at least a little revealing; everything is at least a little low-cut. Right now, all you want to do is find a dress that can cover you, can hide you, shield you from men's gazes and touches and words. You want to be invisible, unimportant, but how can you? You know you'll be marked as a prostitute, a whore, unfit for society. 

Tears prick your eyes for the umpteenth time. You're tired of crying. You're tired of continually being on edge, of wondering every second, every time a man speaks to you or a shadow falls across you that's too big to be a woman's, if that man's going to hurt you. Going to attack you. You're tired of feeling unsafe, of lighting your lamps every single night, of having to ask your manager to walk you home.

You just want to be safe. You want to be able to sleep without waking up with a scream in the middle of the night. You want to be able to talk to a man without garnering a nervous sweat. You want to be able to touch a  _woman_ without feeling nauseous. 

And maybe you're overreacting. Maybe you're just being a big crybaby. You know that he never really did anything; that he never entered you. Your virginity is intact. Physically, at least. But mentally...

You feel violated, mentally. You feel violated and filthy and dirty and no matter how many times you scrub and wash yourself, the taint lingers. Maybe that man didn't take your virginity, but he still managed to take something equally as valuable- your sense of safety. 

You're tired of looking over your shoulder, waiting for the next shoe to drop. But yet here you are, about to have a breakdown because every dress you own is a v-neck- or worse. 

You bend down and grab a handful of dresses. The first one has spaghetti straps- definitely not something to wear in polite society. The second's just as bad, sporting some weird kind of off-shoulder neckline (and wow, you never knew how inappropriate your dresses were until there was a situation where you needed them not to be). You cast the two somewhere to the side of you and pick up the remaining two dresses. One is short sleeved with a scoop neck; the other, thank God, is basically a turtleneck (since when do you even own a turtleneck?). You pick the latter up, examining it. It's dark blue, fringed with lace, sprays of navy flowers scattered about the material. It's not exactly a party-going dress, but it's better than nothing. 

With a sigh, you pull it on, somehow manage the buttons, pull your hair into something resembling order, and slip into your shoes. As you apply a quick bit of makeup, you grimace at the setting sun. Senator Schuyler's house is a good half hour's walk from here; you'll have to practically run all the way there if you want to make it there before sundown. It won't make for the best entrance, but you suppose you're willing to make sacrifices for safety. 

After all, that's all you do these days, anyway. 

You head out the door, carefully lock the door behind you, and start running. 

 

* * *

 

You arrive out of breath and most likely as red as a strawberry. You glance around to make sure no one's looking as you pant, walking in a slow circle as you cool down. Wearing a long-sleeved, turtleneck dress might be a good thing for a party, but it's definitely not a good thing when there's running involved.

You're so caught up in remembering important things like, you know, breathing, that you completely forget about your surroundings. That is, until there's a hand on your back and you kick the person in the shins. 

You turn around, dread already curdling in your gut. "I am  _so, so_ sorry! Please forgi-" 

"Miss Y/N." Mr. Hamilton raises an eyebrow at you, looking amused. "Do you usually greet people by kicking them, or is it just me?" You wince. You've certainly done it now; if Mr. Hamilton wasn't already mad at you for neglecting to return his letters, he's definitely angry now. 

"Mr. Hamilton, I offer my sincerest apologies for my behavior. I assure you, it is not a recurring habit, nor will it, God helping, ever happen to you again." 

"Relax." He gives you a reassuring smile. "I don't mind. I've had far worse."

"Still," you say, pressing your apology like etiquette instructs, "I am very sorry for what I have done." 

"And still I must say, I don't mind." He tilts his head and gestures. "Come inside with me?" 

 _And be the social outcast, only spoken to for pity? No thanks._ But you nod and link arms with him, forcing yourself not to flinch. 

What you don't see is the saddened smile Mr. Hamilton gives you, like he knows exactly what's going on inside your mind. 

"Ah, Mr. Hamilton! 'Tis nice to see you once more," an older lady greets, "And a new-comer, I see? Who is the lovely lady on your arm?" 

"Madam Schuyler, it's a pleasure," Mr. Hamilton replies, bending down and kissing the proffered hand. "This is my dear friend, Miss Y/N." 

You try not to think about already being termed 'my dear friend'. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Madam Schuyler." 

"A pleasure as well, Miss Y/N." 

"Mr. Hamilton!" Another woman, this one younger, about your age, practically runs to his side. "You had not told me you were coming." 

"Miss Schuyler, my apologies. I had not known I was coming until very last minute; I had barely time to tell your father and mother. I see they did not have time to relay that information down to you." 

A Schuyler daughter? Interesting. You look at her; she's definitely pretty, but she has a naive idealism about her that makes you instantly protective. 

"Indeed, we did not know that this one visitor in general was so important," Mrs. Schuyler says a little pointedly to her daughter, who blushes. 

"Well, uh...I, that is to say..." She looks around for help and locks eyes with you. Surprise flickers across her face for a second, before she smiles. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Elizabeth Schuyler, but you may just call me Eliza if you wish. I have two sisters, so calling us all Miss Schuyler gets a bit confusing."

Mrs. Schuyler sighs. "How many times do I have to tell you not to introduce yourself so informally?" 

"It's hardly like she's a man, mother," Eliza protests, grinning at you. "Oh, yes, and your name?" 

"Y/N," you reply, feeling hopelessly out of your depth here. You're inept at social situations in general, but add in your newfound discomfort with people and your uneasiness around rich people, and you're basically done for. When you look over at Mr. Hamilton to gauge his reaction, he's gone. Dismayed, you look around, only to discover his seeming complete disappearance.  _Great._

"Don't worry, Mr. Hamilton probably just went to socialize," Mrs. Schuyler says reassuringly. "If you wait a little bit, you'll probably be able to track him down by the sounds of his shouting." 

"Shouting?" You ask, a little unnerved. "Why would he be shouting?" 

Eliza gives you a smile. "You'll see." 

 

* * *

 

You do indeed see. 

For the record, it only takes an hour. 

You politely mingle, nodding along to conversations you're clueless of and gossip about people you've never heard of. You meet a few people: an elegant, refined lady you later find out is named Martha Washington and is the president's wife; Sally Hemings, a quiet, shy woman who seems to be kept on an incredibly tight leash by her master, whoever he is; and Peggy Schuyler, a quirky, bold and assertive woman, sister to Eliza. 

You're talking to Peggy along with Eliza and another woman, eerily similar in appearance, named something Reynolds (Pariah, maybe? If that's even a name), when you hear the distinct sound of a fight. 

You cringe backwards, arms folding over yourself protectively. Eliza looks at you worriedly, asking if you're okay; you nod, tight-lipped, and ask, "What's going on?" 

"That, my dear friend," Eliza says, "Is Mr. Hamilton." 

"What is he  _doing?"_

Peggy shrugs, starting over to the source of the commotion. "Let's go find out." 

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, the whole debacle started over a disagreement between Mr. Hamilton and a Senator Aaron Burr. As you walk over, they're obviously in the middle of their argument, Mr. Hamilton throwing insults at Mr. Burr and vice versa. 

"You think women our equal?" Mr. Hamilton is sneering, "If you're idiot enough to believe that, you must have the mind of a  _woman,_ too!" 

Wait, what? 

"Mr. Hamilton, you may insult me all you like, but I stand by my position. Women are no more or less our equal. Yes, a particular woman might be intellectually inferior to us, but indeed, a man can also prove intellectually inferior. I have spoken to many women and I believe the only reason women aren't thought of as 'intelligent' is because we've all been brought up in a society that doesn't even offer them proper education!" 

There's a low rumble in the audience, people leaning over excitedly to whisper things. Mr. Hamilton looks annoyed. "And what evidence do you have to support that? Any women could indeed be smarter than  _you,_ Burr, but I'd hardly go so far as to suggest women as smarter than men! And another thing," he continues, starting to talk faster, "I have never, not once, found a woman anywhere near as smart as me. There is a reason we are the only ones allowed to vote, to work fields, to own land. We are superior to them in every way! They are called the fairer sex for a  _reason,_ Burr; their only use is to look pret-"

"I'm afraid you've lost the point along the way, sir," Mr. Burr interrupts, somehow managing to keep his calm. "I never said all women are  _smarter_ than all men. I said, as a whole, women are _equal_ to men, as a whole. An individual woman or man may prove intellectually superior, but overall, there is an even balance. Did you forget what I said about women not being educated? How can you expect someone to prove smarter than you when they haven't even been taught properly?"

Mr. Hamilton snorts, gradually growing angrier throughout Mr. Burr's speech. In all honesty, Mr. Burr's impassioned speech gives you great joy deep inside. You've never once, not once, found a man who thought of a woman as his equal. That a man should not only think of women as equals, but also actively argue  _for_ it against an opponent as verbose and heated as Mr. Hamilton, is something you find vastly soothing and calming. Perhaps the world isn't as bad as you'd thought. Perhaps there's still hope for it yet. 

Not in the form of Mr. Hamilton, though. He rants and raves and insults Mr. Burr until he's red in the face, but Mr. Burr keeps calm throughout the argument, never once losing his cool. You begin to build a healthy admiration for Mr. Burr, as at the same time your respect for Mr. Hamilton decreases. It's not that you were expecting Mr. Hamilton to advocate for women's rights; you just...

What were you really expecting? Men like Mr. Burr are one in a million, easily. You know it'll be hard, if not impossible, to find another man like him. 

"Miss Y/N." You turn to see Mr. Hamilton coming towards you and suddenly don't know how to react. You've just been shown what you personally think must be the worst side of his character; his childish, foolhardy, hot-headed and sexist side. Indeed, Mr. Hamilton is a very intelligent and eloquent man, seemingly ambitious and determined, but he seems to lack that which is most important; restraint, kindness, gentleness. 

"Mr. Hamilton." 

"I hope you saw the argument that went on just now?"

"It was hard to miss, Mr. Hamilton." 

He laughs a little. "Tis true. And what did you think?" 

You bite your lip, uncertain as to what you should do, what you should say. You glance around surreptitiously, just to make sure there are others nearby you can flee to should things get too loud. Then you look him in the eye, summon your courage, and say, "I believe you are wrong, sir." 

To say Mr. Hamilton is shocked would be an understatement. "I beg your pardon?" 

You sigh. Cross your arms. "Mr. Hamilton, do you honestly think a human being would honestly and happily agree to being less than another human being? Do you believe a human being- no, more than that, that half of the entire population of humans, would be okay with submitting as the weaker one, the inferior one, the stupid one, the one used only for breeding and pleasure and housework? Do you honestly believe that?" 

Mr. Hamilton opens his mouth, probably to insult you just as he insulted Burr not even five minutes ago, but you cut him off. "Or is that just the problem? Maybe you do not see women as human beings, Mr. Hamilton. Certainly, it seems as though others you work with don't. Was it not Thomas Jefferson himself who wrote all men were created equal? Does not the use of men denote the human race? Would you argue it only means the male sex, yet at the same time argue that Burr, and at a later point in your speech, that most, if not all other men, are inferior to you as well? As a whole, I believe all humankind, male and female, are equal. Each of us has our strengths, and each has our weaknesses. If you can't see that, Mr. Hamilton, then I am very sorry, for even with all your knowledge and intelligence, you still remain blind to true wisdom."

Mr. Hamilton stares at you, shocked. Dimly, you realize several other people do the same. You must've been louder than you intended. Now would be the time to beat a hasty exit, you decide.

You lock eyes with Mr. Hamilton once more, give a sad smile, and say, "Goodnight, Mr. Hamilton. I hope you'll think over Mr. Burr's words and perhaps mine, too, while you're at it." 

Then you turn your back on him and exit the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm messing around with history a fair bit, just as a warning. However, there are some things that are true to history but not to the musical; Aaron Burr was actually of the opinion that women were to be equals (in stark contrast to Hamilton). His daughter, Theodosia, was educated just like a boy would've been educated, and Burr's beliefs were some of the prime things Hamilton attacked. I thought I'd just add that fascinating little piece of information into the story.


	4. Chapter 4

About five steps later, you realize your mistake. 

Again- because this can't be reiterated enough- woman. Attractive. Alone. You're outside on a deserted street at eleven at night. 

You sink down to the ground outside the Schuyler residence, forcing back tears. You just alienated the one man of whom you could ask to walk you home; any other man would get the wrong idea and think you forward, at the very least. You don't really want any more unwanted advances, nor do you want men who think they're entitled to you just because you smiled at them. 

"Miss? Are you alright?" The voice comes from above and to your right, directly in front of the door to the house. You jump, springing to your feet and whirling, coming face to face with...

"Mr. Aaron Burr, I presume?" 

The aforementioned man nods, a small smile gracing his face. "Yes. And who might you be? I saw you arguing with Mr. Hamilton just a few minutes past. You have piqued my interest, I must say."

You look in his eyes carefully, searching for something suggestive or violent in his face, but he only seems politely interested. Huh. You tell him your name and add, "I saw your...discussion with Mr. Hamilton earlier. Thank you for standing up for us women. I've never known a man to do that before." 

Mr. Burr's smile widens a little and it suddenly strikes you how attractive he is. "As you can see, I am not how most men are. Hamilton, on the other hand..." 

You purse your lips and search for another topic, not all that eager to start insulting Mr. Hamilton, especially not at the very same party he's at. Mr. Burr, however, seems to notice your discomfort immediately and gives you an apologetic look, continuing, "But enough about Hamilton; I see you do not have an escort to go back home, and would like to offer my services. It's dangerous for a young woman to walk alone at night, is it not?" 

"Mr. Burr, you're too kind," you demur, as you're expected to. "I couldn't possibly ask you to go to all that trouble on my behalf." 

"Nonsense," he retorts a bit warmly, "'Tis not trouble at all; 'tis simply common courtesy. Please, allow me; I promise you I will not beholden you for this in any way nor expect anything from you for it." 

You waver, considering. It all sounds too good to be true. Mr. Burr can't possibly be this kind; he must have some kind of ulterior motive. Perhaps he intends only to get you alone in order to have his way with you with no one watching. Perhaps he just needs an ego inflation. Whatever the reason, though, you still can't let him. You will not let yourself be beholden to a man. 

"Miss, I promise these things. And I keep my vows." 

But at the same time, what choice do you have? It's the uncertainty that Mr. Burr might demand something from you after walking you home or the uncertainty that you might be accosted on your way back alone. Either one's uncertain; at least with Mr. Burr, you'll be prepared. Alone, you'll have no idea which direction the attack will come from. 

You look at Mr. Burr and nod, schooling your expression into polite gratitude. "Very well, Mr. Burr. I'm still sorry for inconven-"

"Miss Y/N, please stop." You freeze mid-sentence, cheeks growing warm. "After hearing my speech about women being equal to men and saying your own, how can you do that?" 

"Do...what, exactly, Mr. Burr?" 

He sighs, looking almost pained. "Apologize. Haven't you noticed? It's always the woman that apologizes; for the quality of the paper, for the unbecoming hairstyle, for the penmanship. When's the last time a man apologized to you..." 

You consider saying  _Mr. Hamilton, several days ago, after I nearly got raped,_ but then he adds, "...and meant it?" And then you stop. Because did Mr. Hamilton really mean it? After all, he sees women as less than himself; why would he apologize to a lesser, stupider human being only meant for cooking? 

So you say, "I don't know." 

He just nods and says nothing else, simply gesturing for you to show him the way to your house. You start walking, relieved when he joins you to your right, a large enough distance away that you don't feel uncomfortable. He doesn't even try to make contact with you- something you find very comforting, but at the same time, makes you start to wonder if, maybe, you've suddenly become less attractive by virtue of your argument with Mr. Hamilton.

 _Certainly not, for he even condoned it,_ you think, then stop.  _And besides, why should it matter if Mr. Burr, or any man, finds me attractive? It's not like I_ want  _attention._ But, you suppose, even if it's unwanted, it's still a sometimes much-needed self-esteem boost, no matter how twisted that is. 

The two of you walk in almost complete silence the entire way back, only a few words said between the two of you in the thirty-minute walk. Once there, you turn to Mr. Burr, ready to thank him, but he gently grasps your hand in his and presses his lips to it. You stiffen instantly and, apparently noticing that, he draws back within seconds.

"My deepest apologies if I've offended you in any way," he says quickly, and earnestly, and you laugh a little.

"Were you not just speaking of men and insincere apologies? Do you yet deign to offer me one?" 

Mr. Burr looks offended for a fraction of a second before seeming to catch your joke, offering a soft laugh in response. "I guess it must've come across that way, Miss. But do not doubt my sincerity; I am really very sorry if I've offended you." 

You shake your head. "No, you did not in the least, Mr. Burr. I was simply caught by surprise. But thank you very much for walking me back; I realize I can't repay you-" 

"I've already told you, 'tis but common courtesy. If a man did not even do such a small thing without asking for something in return, what sort of man would he be?" 

 _The kind of man I see every day,_ you think, but nod politely. 

"Well, I'd best be going. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Y/N. I hope to see you again soon." 

"Good night, Mr. Burr," you reply, wincing at the rudeness of it as soon as it comes out of your mouth but unable to take it back. 

"Good night, Miss Y/N." He bows, turns around, and departs, the soft click of his shoes on the cobbled street the only thing you hear.

As soon as he gets out of hearing distance, you bolt for the door.

 

* * *

 

 _"'Dear Miss Y/N, I must say that I am...disappointed, to say the least, of this evening's happenings. I am indeed surprised at your lack of propriety. However, in my shock, I neglected to walk you home, and for that I apologize. I have also realized I did not give you my address in order to write back to me, so it is enclosed below my signature. A. Hamilton.'"_ Adrianna looks over at you. "Okay, what exactly did you  _do_ on Friday?" 

You sigh. "I heard he and a gentleman named Mr. Burr arguing about women's rights. Mr. Hamilton was behaving quite shamefully: insulting his opponent and not even answering Mr. Burr's arguments, instead choosing to rant about how women are lower than low and deserved only to be used as- as-" you stop for a moment, trying to control your breathing. Adrianna's hand comes over your shoulder in what's meant to be a comforting gesture, but you shrug it off as gently as you can and finish, "only to be used as- as housekeepers and for looking  _pretty."_

"Oh, sweetie," Adrianna says softly. She knows of your occupation and how much of a sore topic it is to hear about women only being good for sex or for their looks. What she doesn't know is how much harder it is to hear that when it comes from the mouth of the man who saved you from being raped. You had had at least some modicum of good will towards him for saving you- now, every time you hear from him, it seems to be deteriorating. 

Adrianna glances back over the letter, pursing her lips. "He definitely seems annoyed at you from the tone of the letter. Just goes to show how immature he is, though. Can't even listen to a single argument without getting pissy." 

Your eyes widen and you let out a startled laugh, surprised at your friend's language. "Adrianna!" 

She shrugs. "What? 'Tis true. He is just being a pissy, spoiled, intellectual brat at this point. You'd do far better with Burr, to be honest." She looks over at you, and her eyes widen. "No. Don't tell me- something already happened between you two, didn't it!" 

"Well..."

Adrianna's smirk grows bigger and she throws you an exaggerated wink. 

"It's not like that," you protest, blushing. "He just offered to walk me home because Mr. Hamilton wouldn't." 

"Oh, it's because 'Mr. Hamilton wouldn't' now is it? I'd bet a nickel that he would've asked even if you were halfway down the street with your Mr. Hamilton!"

"He's not my Mr. Hamilton, Adrianna," you say pointedly, "at this point, I don't even remotely want to call him so." 

She makes a face. "You have a point. Although most men are...unfairly prejudiced against women, at least finding one that's not so outspoken he'd argue for it would be better." She grins. "Or, you could find someone who blatantly supports the exact opposite!" 

"Adrianna," you groan. 

"I'm just saying, yeah, he's a bit of a womanizer, but so is Mr. Hamilton! Where else are you ever going to find a man that's one, attractive, two, intelligent, and three, shares your same beliefs!" 

"There's no chance he'd ever like me." 

Adrianna rolls her eyes and turns back to the letter. "Enough of the low self-esteem, let's get back to business. Do you want to write a response?" 

"I mean...I'm not really sure what I'd say without seeming even more rude in his eyes." 

"Honestly, girl," Adrianna says, "Be as rude as you like. Mr. Hamilton deserves it after how he's treated you and probably a million other girls and definitely a million guys." She dips her quill in ink and looks back at you expectantly. "So?" 

 

* * *

 

_Mr. Hamilton, sir,_

_It greatly saddens me to hear that you have so obviously ignored my plea to think on Mr. Burr's arguments about women. It seems you are still adamant in your position that we are to be your slaves and breeders. Although I suppose it was a fool's hope to think I could change a man's opinion on one such subject as this, it was a hope nonetheless._

_As for my supposed impropriety: I ask you how it is 'impolite' to respectfully address a man with the intention to change his mind on a topic? Certainly, your own method for changing men's minds was not nearly so respectful, kind, or polite. I suppose, however, that it again boils down to women being inferior in your sight. Since you hold to such a belief, I regret to say I must limit, if not cut off altogether, our acquaintanceship._

_Now, do not misunderstand me, Mr. Hamilton; it is not simply the beliefs you hold to, but the way you so flagrantly vaunt them about in such an inappropriate and, indeed, not gentlemanly, way, that has made me feel this is necessary. I hesitate to offer an ultimatum, but it seems I must: if you insist on degrading and holding women to a standard so drastically different to that which you hold men to, I see no need for our relationship to continue. Although I will always be indebted to you and am very grateful for your assistance, I will not allow that to act as blackmail._

_Respectfully,_

_Y/N_

 

Alexander blinks, rereads the letter, and stares at it for a moment. There had been many things he'd expected from this letter. He'd expected an apology, maybe, or something of the sort, as well as a polite compliment of his intellect and debating abilities. Instead, he'd gotten a polite but still firm reprove, no apology, and a threat to cut all ties unless he conforms to a specific thinking pattern. 

His first thought is to cuss her out then call up a friend and complain, but he restrains himself, rereads the letter once more, and forces himself to think through everything rationally. 

Really, he doesn't know why he's getting so angry over this. Surely a woman shouldn't have anything worth even considering? Yet he's already spent two days, almost three now, in a state of such disturbance that George Washington is starting to get concerned. Perhaps this woman, at least, is worth considering. 

What would she have him consider? He thinks for a moment. She would have him consider all that Burr would; that women are equals, if not physically, at least intellectually and emotionally. That women are not to be treated as housekeepers and mothers only, but as something more than just an object meant to work and produce offspring. A part of him recoils at the thought of agreeing in something with Burr, but he supposes it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Besides, he can just fake not agreeing with him if he has to. 

However, at the same time, he doesn't want to do what the girl asks. He's a grown man, dammit, he shouldn't have to do what he's told!

He does has to admit, though, that he's loath to part acquaintance with her. Unlike most people, male or female, she actually seems to possess a sense of humor; in addition, she is definitely one of the most interesting women he's met so far- a tie with Angelica, if he's perfectly honest. So, although it hurts his pride to do so, he dips his quill in his inkwell and writes his submission. 

_Dearest Y/N,_

_I have thought over what both you and Burr have said; Burr last Friday's eve, and you both that same eve and your own letter. I have decided I am loath to part acquaintance with you and would prefer that sad thing never to happen to us. You are an unusual woman, Y/N- better yet, an unusual human being. You have piqued this statesman's interest and, if possible, I would not lose our relationship to the flames of disagreement._

_Because you asked, I have decided that I will not 'flagrantly vaunt' my opinions on this matter, at least until I have given it its due consideration. I promise nothing, for I, a finite man, could not possibly hope to divine the future, but I will think over those aforementioned opinions, and who knows? Perhaps it will change mine, as well._

_Most Honorably Yours,_

_A. Hamilton_

He sets the quill back on the inkstand and scans it once more before deciding it's passable. It irks him to the highest level to be called to account like this- by a woman, no less- but as the saying intones: pride goeth before a fall. There are some things worth more than pride, although that doesn't mean he has to be happy about doing them. 

"Hamilton! What are you doing?" 

Alex grimaces. Washington. He should've expected Washington's sharp eyes to be able to see his lack of work ethic. "Writing," he responds shortly.

"That much is obvious; 'tis all you ever do, Hamilton. Who were you writing to just now?" 

"I do not see how it is any of your business, Your Excellency," he retorts, just on the knife-edge between politeness and rudeness. 

"You work for me," Washington states. Alex is tempted to roll his eyes at the obvious nature of the sentence. "Am I not allowed to inquire as to how my workers employ their time and if they use it wisely?" 

"Of course you are, Your Excellency, but why must you know exactly who the letter is directed to? I am hardly giving away national secrets." 

Washington sighs, running a hand over his face in exasperation. "Alexander, please just tell me." 

"Don't speak to me like I'm your son," Alex spits, hastily adding, "sir." He is not quite so confident in the president's liking of him as to blatantly disrespect him. Not yet, anyway. 

Washington gives him a look. It's patronizing and highly annoying, but in order to get the president off his back, Alex begrudgingly says, "just a letter to an...acquaintance." he curses the pause in his sentence the moment it happens; Washington starts  _smiling._ Like Alex's day couldn't get worse. "An acquaintance, you say? Would this person happen to be of the female sex?" 

Alex turns back to his desk, hoping that by ignoring the president, he'll get annoyed enough to walk away. As soon as he does so, however, he realizes there's one crucial problem: his desk is completely empty of papers except the two letters. He has nothing he can pretend to work on. So he sighs and replies, "Perhaps." 

Washington, thank God, doesn't press it any further. He just nods and tells Hamilton his real reason for coming; he has to go meet a foreign ambassador, and Hamilton will be in charge if anything urgent comes up. Alex just nods distractedly, for once unable to care less about his job. 

He has a letter to send. 


End file.
